Sentiment
by HandwrittenStories
Summary: America reflects on memories of his big brother Native America. Written for Thanksgiving. I do not own Hetalia. No review goes unnoticed.


Nobody knows this but I have a second brother. Before France or England or even Spain came across me I wasn't alone. At the time Canada kept to himself most of the time, but I wasn't without a companion. There was another person here.

My first older brother.

I still remember him, even after centuries of being apart. Him standing proud and strong, a colorful feather in his sleek black hair. The thick ropes created a curtain around his tan face, dark brown eyes shining. Strings of shells and glass beads would adore his neck, jangling as he walked.

He could cut through the woods so swiftly, strong legs guiding him past every obstacle. So surefooted, completely aware of everything around him. As a small child I had looked up to him, adored everything about him, he was my big brother.

My hero.

He always cared for nature. When he would farm the land he would have his crops and yet leave the land in perfect balance. When he gathered things from the wilderness he never took more than what we needed to survive, leaving enough for other animals to find. It's true that he hunted; but he did it in a way that was so natural, so gentle, that he wasn't _really_ taking a life he was simply taking part in the cycle of life all things went through.

Nothing that came into his hands was ever wasted. From the animals that he killed for our food to the trees he used for firewood and houses, he used everything to create something. From the soft clothing that we had for cold snowy winters, to the different homes that he built for us out of anything he could find. From cotton he wove cloth to keep us cool in our summer home made of earth, he made sure to protect me from the harsh sun. In winter as we moved around from snowy plain to snowy plain he made sure to wrap me in warm blankets that he made from the hides of buffalo he hunted for our food.

We would wander together from place to place. From humid coastal plains to rainy woodlands, to the cold north to the hot south everywhere was our home. We carried on this way forever, never lacking anything or putting things out of balance.

Everything was perfect.

Sometimes he would leave for day or even weeks. He would return loaded down with fur and pelts of animals I had never seen before, they were so thick and soft. He told me that they came from another home in the north completely covered in snow and ice. At the time Canada was the only person who lived there, accustomed to the cold and isolation that it brought. He said, that one day we would visit the igloo he had built there for the three of us to live in. I had eagerly waited for the time when we would see huge snow drifts and seals that had fur.

That day had never come.

Suddenly other countries began to appear one by one, fighting over land. My elder brother had done his best to befriend these foreigners, offering them a place to stay and food to eat. I had been so certain that they we would all live peacefully, that my big brother would show them the things he had shown me and that the strangers would be grateful to him as I had been.

But nothing had turned out the way I had thought it would.

One night my brother had asked England to have a meal in our home in the woods. We would give him a meal to celebrate all that he had learned since arriving. It went perfectly, not a single thing had gone wrong throughout the three days we had celebrated. Or that was what I had thought.

I would learn later that England had stabbed him in the back after I had gone to sleep.

My brother had stopped speaking to England after that. When the older country would visit my brother would avoid him, disappearing to visit Canada. He would spend longer and longer amounts of time, returning only after I would wander around from or homes begging and calling for him to come back.

He would find me, lost amid the once familiar wilderness we had called home. Only now, I couldn't remember anything he had showed me. Now I crashed through the woods we once treaded through so silently, uncertain about where to step and unable to tread as I had before. The game we hunted now fled in terror, hearing us from a far distance.

He had changed as well. He was distant, and cold. He no longer tucked extra blankets around me or made clever jokes. Sighs frequently escaped him and I saw melancholy in his eyes. Whenever we caught sight of England he would look at me apologetically and disappear into the wild.

I still haven't forgotten how he had looked at me with such complete depression. He had watched as a flock of bird flew away at the sound of a twig snapping under my foot, gazing at the graceful way they flew escaping us. He ran his fingers through his hair, sending the feather dancing in the breeze.

"I'm sorry," I had said. What was happening to me?

He had turned back, looking at me as if I were an entirely new person. "It's fine America, it's fine. Just, return to the tulle hut for now."

Before I could answer he had disappeared into the trees again.

I didn't know but that would be one of the last days we would spend together.

That night we began the journey back to our wetu in the east. It was so sudden, before he had told me when we would move. Even after things had changed he would wake me the morning of our journey and tell me that we would travel. But something about it didn't upset me like when he had first disappeared.

After an exhausting day of journey we had arrived, I had eagerly settled down to rest in my bed, happy to be in the woods again. It had been so long since he had visited our home in the east, not since England had visited us.

Everything was perfect.

The next morning I had woken up alone for the first time in my life. The wind that blew through the wetu wasn't friendly as it had been. Instead it was a long lonely sound that rustled the wooden skirt and mats. I got up searching for any sign of where he could have gone, finding only empty blankets. Outside there was nothing, not even a campfire.

Scared I had thrashed through the woods furiously startling everything in the trees. The path was unfamiliar and lead me around in circles, I stumbled over rocks and tree roots helpless. I searched and searched, desperate to find my elder brother.

I finally found him, hunched over as he gazed into a stream and the life swirling around him. His once proud shoulders were stooped, the force that once held him strong and fierce had disappeared.

He was no longer the brother I had once known.

I had looked at him, not recognizing the man before me.

"America," He had said, standing up. "I'm leaving."

He hoisted a pack onto his shoulders and gave me one last pat on the head.

I had watched as he made his way through the trees, as surefooted as ever. He dissolved into the woods and was gone.

He would be back, he always came back. Even if it was for a long time he would be back and then we would visit our home in the north. He would show me the animals that he described and I would see Canada. He would come back and everything would go back to normal.

He never came back.

I waited and waited for him to return. I begged and stumbled through the woods until I came across the place where our wetu had been, instead of the wooden home there was only an empty space. That night was the first one I spent in England's home.

England forgot about him quick enough. And for the most part I did too, I had a new big brother now. But sometimes I swear I see him, in a flicker or a hallucination. Sometimes when I walk near the woods I think I see an arrow fly, or hear the clinking of shells and beads against a strong chest.

I still remember him, my first big brother.


End file.
